


The Mousetrap

by dynastic



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-19
Updated: 2012-04-19
Packaged: 2017-11-03 22:32:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/386708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dynastic/pseuds/dynastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Franco-Prussian War—Prussia and Germany kick France’s ass, take some of France’s land, and then France kicks both of their asses later with a little help, of course. Otto von Bismarck makes a guest appearance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mousetrap

**14 July 1870. Berlin, Kingdom of Prussia.**

Standing in front of his floor length mirror as he buttoned up his crisp, white shirt, Prussia felt something unpleasant knot in his stomach. He stopped buttoning his shirt long enough to look into the mirror, half-wondering if it was that morning's questionable breakfast starting its comeuppance. 

"S'gotta be nothing," he muttered to himself as he shook it off and continued to dress. Slipping into his trousers, Prussia buttoned them quickly as another knot tightened in his stomach. "What the hell," he said, reaching for his belt and sliding it on. "Dammit, Frau Henry must have—"

"Bruder," said a soft voice from the other side of the door. "Bruder, are you dressed yet? I want to talk to you."

"Yeah, I'm dressed. Come in." Prussia adjusted his belt then reached for his jacket and tugged it on, glancing over to the left as the door opened.

His younger brother walked inside the room, his small fingers still curled around the doorknob. "Have you seen the newspaper yet?"

“It should be on the kitchen table,” Prussia said, buttoning his jacket. 

“No, no. I was asking if you had _seen_ it,” his brother clarified, walking into the room and closing the door behind him. In his other hand, he had that morning’s newspaper. He held it out to Prussia. “It seems that France has—ah, perhaps you should just read it.”

“Give it here.” Prussia took the newspaper from him, unfolded it and read the headline to himself. “Why the hell would one of France’s men act like that towards _my king_?” he mumbled, reading onward. He quirked an eyebrow at the article beneath the headline then his lips curled angrily. He shoved the newspaper back into his brother’s hands. “He’s _insulting_ my king by making demands like that! What the hell do they take us—take _me_ for?”

His brother said nothing, and merely folded up the newspaper again after it was shoved back into his hands. His expression was sheepish, but he understood the problems that stood behind such an event. It could easily lead to more problems on top of the problems that already existed between France and his brother. And if Prussia gained more problems, it could result in problems for him too. 

On the hand other, Prussia’s nostrils flared in anger as he turned back to the mirror and adjusted his jacket. “This is unacceptable,” he hissed. 

“Perhaps you should speak to Herr Bismarck, Bruder,” his brother suggested, quietly. 

“Oh, _I will_ ,” Prussia said, walking over to his dresser to grab his pocket watch—a gift from England after the end of the Napoleonic Wars. He sighed and wound up the key before shoving it into his pocket. He glanced at his younger brother. “You’re coming with me.”

 

**1870 July 15. Berlin, Kingdom of Prussia.**

Despite the briefness of the article in the newspaper, the issue was much, much deeper. For years, Prussia’s tension with France had grown and perhaps, now it would finally come to a head. It was public knowledge that Prussia and his leaders desired to unite the many German states for the past decades; it was the ultimate political move, the ultimate upset in the balance of power throughout Europe. 

Since acquiring his “younger brother” a few years ago, Prussia had not yet laid out his leaders’ plans to him. He _had_ , for lack of a better word, been priming the boy for his emergence as a power in Europe. 

At the moment, however, Prussia was more concerned with seeing Herr Bismarck personally and as soon as possible. Despite the number of people who understood his status and his younger brother’s status, it was nearly impossible to see the man after such a controversial and outrageous story became available to the general public. 

“You do not understand,” Prussia said, trying to keep his tone calm. “My brother and I request a few moments with the Prime Minister.” 

Bismarck’s assistant did not budge. “I’m sorry, but I cannot let you in. He’s particularly busy—”

“It’s an urgent matter,” Prussia replied. He had his arm clapped firmly around his brother’s shoulder. “I would appreciate it if you let us in to see him.”

“I have already told you that I cannot let either of you in,” Bismarck’s assistant sighed. “I ask that both of you leave now.”

Then his younger brother spoke up, having been quiet for the last few moments during the exchange, “It’s a matter involving his wife. We need to speak to him.” 

The assistant blinked. “Ah, it is? I was not notified of this—”

“Please let us in to speak to Herr Bismarck. It’s very important that we speak to him.” 

The assistant sighed then nodded. “All right, you may go in,” he said, pushing open the door to Bismarck’s office.

“Finally,” Prussia muttered, ushering himself and his brother inside the large office. The door shut behind them as he approached the desk. “Herr Bismarck—”

“I know why you’re here, Preussen,” Bismarck said, standing up from his chair to greet them. “And you, Norddeutscher Bund. I know why you’re here, as well.“ He nodded to him, extending his hand first out to Prussia.

Prussia took his hand and shook it firmly. “I saw the paper,” he told him, thinking about the knots in his stomach from earlier yesterday.

“I knew you would,” Bismarck replied, gesturing for them to sit down in the chairs in front of the large, wooden desk. “Please, sit down.”

Sitting down in the plush armchair, Prussia glanced at his brother and noticed the uncertainty in his eyes. “Tell me—”

“I know you are not opposed to a war with Frankreich.” Bismarck sat down in his chair across from them. He placed his hands in his lap as he reclined. “In fact, it may prove to,” he looked at Norddeutscher Bund, “it may prove to help things along.“

Prussia nodded, almost smirking at the thought of another war with Frankreich. “You would be right,” he said considerately, “I am definitely not opposed to fighting that mongrel. In fact, I think it’s about time he got what was coming to him. His goddamn ambassador insulted—”

“Preussen, calm yourself,” Bismarck reprimanded. “I received a telegram this morning that they are mobilizing. Frankreich is mobilizing. His citizens, it seems, are just as angry as yours.”

“Unsurprising,” Prussia muttered. “That mongrel is always looking for excuses to throw insults.” He paused. “Wait, did you say that he’s mobilizing?”

“He’s insulted _us all_ , and now he’s mobilizing against us, against you” Bismarck continued. “It is not enough for them that we already acquiesced that we will not place a member of the House of Hohenzollern in power of the Spanish throne.”

“Because he thought we’d ally with Spanien! And they got what they wanted. It was already a political defeat for us—for me because Prince Leopold withdrew his acceptance a few weeks ago!” Prussia said, his outrage showing once more. 

“Too right, Preussen.” Bismarck stood, glancing down at the both of them. “It is absurd of Frankreich to make demands like that to us.”

“He’s asking for it.” Prussia reclined in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. 

Nodding, Bismarck turned and looked at Norddeutscher Bund. “In a way, yes,” he said. “However, it’s worth the trouble, I think. Don’t you agree, Norddeutscher Bund?”

“Ah,” he began. He had been quiet throughout the entire meeting, listening keenly to the conversation. “Yes,” he managed, shrinking into his seat a little.

“West, you’re allowed to speak up,” Prussia said. “I know you’re just as angry we are.”

His brother was right, of course. This entire issue was enraging, but he was having trouble showing it. “I think, if Frankreich were to declare war, which seems imminent at this point—” he paused, finding himself stumbling over what he wanted to say. 

Raising an eyebrow at his younger brother, Prussia turned towards him and leaned closer. His tone lowered as he spoke, eyes fixated, “ _you’ll fight Frankreich, won’t you_?”

 

**1 September 1870. Sedan, France.**

“Stabsunteroffizier Beilschmidt.”

Prussia’s ears perked up, and he glanced over his shoulder at Bavaria. “Yes, Feldwebel Eisenberg?”

“I have received word about the situation,” Bavaria said, trying to sound professional, but sounding smugger than anything. “Generalfeldmarschall Motke has decided to divide his forces into three groups—he’s sending myself and some others to detain the French, another group will be sent ahead to catch them on the retreat because knowing them, _they will_ , and your group will be sent to the riverbank.” He paused. “How’s the boy doing?”

“I’ll be sure to pass that on my men then,” Prussia replied, looking quite pleased to hear this news. “And he’s fine. He’s been busy in the hospital tent. He’s taken an interest in medicine lately.”

“Ah,” Bavaria said, nodding a little. “Well, at least he’s been kept busy. I am still surprised that you brought him along with you—”

“He _needs_ to be here,” Prussia interrupted.

Bavaria scoffed a little. “I know that. I just worry for his safety since he’s just pretty young.”

“Bayern, we have had this discussion before,” Prussia said, raising an eyebrow at him. “He wanted to come along—he agreed to this.”

“Yes, I know,” Bavaria sighed, straightening his jacket. “Well, I need to deal with my guys now. I’ll leave you to…” He trailed off, his gaze still focused on Prussia. 

Prussia turned his back to him then started to gather his things. “Yes. Just go, Bayern.” 

“Right, carry on then,” Bavaria said, quietly. He turned on his heel then exited through the little flap in the tent. 

 

**18 January 1871. Versailles, France.**

The walk from the Petit Trianon to the Château de Versailles was a relatively long one. The fresh snow crunched beneath Prussia’s dirty boots as the frigid cold bit his cheeks and nose. He rounded a corner on one of the unkempt garden hedges. Since his arrival at Versailles in the fall, many of the gardens and buildings had fallen into various states of disarray. But Prussia could hardly think about the gardens or the palace or the unpleasant weather because today— today was important. 

Behind him, his brother tagged along, careful not to step in any of the frozen puddles as they made their way through the maze of gardens and statues. In the past few months, he had grown several inches, making him almost as tall as Prussia now.

“Hurry up, West,” Prussia said, glancing over his shoulder. 

“Yes, Bruder.” He quickened his walking pace, moving beside his brother now. Adjusting his scarf, he looked forward at the palace with its ivory and golden-yellow walls contrasting against the grey skyline. It wasn’t quite noontime, but it was still dark and unpleasant, as it had been for the last two months. 

They continued walking in silence. Prussia spared his brother a look from time to time, like he was contemplating something to say to him. Nothing came, of course.

After they passed the Bassin de Latone, with its frozen water and ornately carved statues coated with a thin layer of this, Prussia stopped and turned to look at his brother. “You’re quiet, and it’s agitating me. Is something wrong?”

His brother stopped too, looking shyly up at Prussia. “Sorry,” he said, shrugging a little. “You weren’t talking either, Bruder.” He paused then tugged at his gloves. “Nothing is wrong, though.”

“Do you know why we’re walking to the Château, West?” Prussia asked, tilting his head slightly at him. “Do you know why you’re wearing your church clothes beneath your coat?”

“ _It_ is happening, isn’t it?” he offered, seeming sheepish. He’d turned his gaze away from him, and was looking at his shoes now. 

Sighing, Prussia bent down to his brother’s level, looking up at him. “Look at me,” he commanded, resting his hand on his shoulder. “Look at me, boy.” 

He glanced up at Prussia with uncertain and cautious eyes. 

“Now, you listen here,” Prussia began, “You’re going to be great— _awesome_ in every way. You got that? You’re going to go on to do great things because _I’ve_ done great things. I have given you everything you could possibly need to go on your own.”

“Yes, Bruder,” he said, nodding a little. His hands twitched at his sides. 

Prussia raised an eyebrow at him. “Boy, you asked for this. You agreed to work with me, with us. Don’t just nod your head at me!” 

“I know I did. I want this… I want to be a nation-state,” he replied, feeling his lip curling. He knew his brother was saying this to get him riled and excited. It was working. 

Clasping his other hand on his brother’s arm, Prussia looked him in the eye. “You’re making history, you know. _We’re_ making history, _Deutschland_ ” he said, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Shit, it’s got a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?” 

“It’s a good name,” his brother— no, _Germany_ said. He was smiling, just a little. 

“Now, come on, we’re going to be late.” He stood up then straightened his coat and brushed off the snow. He started walking again, boots crunching over the fresh snow. 

Germany was already ahead of him. 

 

**10 May 1871. Frankfurt, Germany.**

“Alsace and Lorraine—I want them, Frankreich.” 

France quirked a meticulously groomed eyebrow at Prussia, and then he leaned back unceremoniously in his chair, pondering the demand. He stayed silent, of course. Giving up Alsace and Lorraine was an insult, an unfortunate insult. However, he wasn’t in a position to _argue_ about it either. 

Eventually, he opened his mouth, still trying to dance around the issue like they had been doing for the last several hours. “Prusse, you’re demanding too much.”

“May I remind you, Frankreich, that you and your men were defeated—”

“Yes, yes, I know,” France said coldly, waving his hand at Prussia. “Remind me again why you want them because the residents are French, and therefore—”

“I already goddamn told you, Frankreich,” Prussia said, his tone sharp. He stood up from his chair then started to pace a few steps. “For one, Germany—”

“Bruder, I am right here,” Germany said, attempting to make his presence known. He glanced at Prussia. “Should I remind him of the reasons again?” 

Prussia turned his head to the left where his younger brother sat then sighed, “Yeah, yeah, go on.”

Standing up from his chair, which he pushed in as quietly and politely as possible, Germany turned to France. He had grown several inches since the winter. His shoulders broadened and he towered over his brother, much to his chagrin. “Firstly, you are not in a position to truly _argue_ with myself or _Preussen_ ,” he began. “I believe we can come to a compromise, though.” 

France’s mouth thinned, but he sat up and gave Germany his attention anyway. “I can agree to a compromise, but do not be assured that I will not try to take back what you took from me.”

“I promise that your towns and cities are in good hands,” Germany replied. He was wary of France’s expression, but then again, this _was_ France. He had been easily defeated, and what would change that in the future?

“Fair enough,” France said, more coldly than Germany liked. “Go on with this so-called compromise of yours…”

 

**12 July 1916. Verdun-sur-Meuse, France.**

Prussia had been carried off to the hospital tent after a stray piece of shrapnel pierced through half of his right leg, Pomerania. Fucking Pomerania always seemed to suffer during the battles. It wasn’t much of a big deal, of course. He’d heal, and the scar would still be there until his dying day like every other scar he’d come to acquire over the years.

The real problem was that they had failed their objective of capturing Fort Souville, which was still full of France’s machine gunners. Despite being able to see the roofs of the city of Verdun not far in the distance, it seemed that that France’s gunners had gotten the better of his brother’s men. 

Prussia never allowed defeat to get the best of him, but ultimately, it was starting to wear him down. He was tired, cold and hungry. The trenches were muddy, dirty and absolutely unsanitary, and _that_ was saying something. 

_Had it been like that in the past?_

Unable to find an answer, Prussia shifted on the hospital cot. His ears rang with the sound of gunfire and artillery, and his leg throbbed with pain. He ignored it then turned his head upwards to stare at the ceiling of the hospital tent.

Ten minutes later, Germany entered the tent and strode briskly over to Prussia’s cot. “You were shot?”

“In the fucking leg,” Prussia grumbled, shifting uncomfortably on his cot. “And I wasn’t even really _shot at_ , I was hit by the shrapnel.”

“Ah,” Germany said, folding his arms over his chest. 

Prussia noticed that his brother’s uniform was dirty, dirtier than usual. “Where were you?” 

“I was coming back to see you.” Germany unfolded his arms then reached into his pocket. “You must have lost this out there.” He held out a large Iron Cross pendant to him. The chain was broken, but the Cross itself was intact. 

Prussia almost grinned, extending his hand to take it back. “Thanks,” he said as cold metal dropped into his hand. He turned it over, examining it. “I’m going to need another chain.” 

“Put it in your pocket until then,” Germany replied. “I’ll find another chain for you—”

“I can get one myself, West,” Prussia interrupted. He shoved the pendant into his jacket hanging from the low bedpost. 

Germany’s lips thinned. “Fine then, I’ll leave you to that,” he looked his brother over before adding, “When you can move again.”

“Shut up,” Prussia growled, tugging at the thin hospital blanket. “Shouldn’t you be out there?”

“I was given a brief leave to see you,” Germany said, shortly. “But now that I’m done here, I’ll let you rest.” He nodded to Prussia’s bandaged leg. 

Prussia said nothing, his eyes focused on the crinkles in his brother’s forehead. “Get some sleep,” he muttered.

“I will,” and with that, Germany turned on his heel and headed for the exit to the hospital tent.

Watching his brother walk towards the exit of the tent, Prussia sighed and reached back into the pocket of his jacket. He pulled out his Cross and broken chain, noticing the dullness in the metal’s shine in the dim light of the tent. Lying back against the thin pillows, he turned over the pendant in his hands before trying to scrub it clean with the edge of his blanket. 

The metal refused to clean, of course, and he put the pendant back into the pocket of his jacket. “ _We better fucking win this war_.”

 

**28 June 1919. Paris, France.**

For once, Prussia sat across from England at the conference table. In the past, he had sat beside him or a few seats down from him, despite England’s protests that Prussia was a mongrel. Which, well, Prussia _was_.

Though, it didn’t really matter where he sat because the decision had already been made a few moments beforehand. The room had turned silent after that, an awkward silence resonating between several nations.

Prussia glanced at his brother. He knew he felt despondent about the loss of territory, but he imagined that he felt even worse for being blamed for the entire conflict. Drumming his fingers loudly on the table, Prussia let out a sigh then glanced at France, who sat two seats down from England. 

“I hope you’re satisfied with yourselves,” Prussia muttered to them, finally. 

“ _Satisfied_? We are not satisfied, Prusse,” France replied, his eyes cold and serious. “I’m taking back what is mine, and your—”

“I’m sitting right here, Frankreich,” Germany said, rather loudly. He stood up from his chair. “I have accepted full blame, have I not?”

France quirked an eyebrow at him, “Yes, you did, and—”

Germany interrupted, “Then may I please leave?” 

“You’re allowed to leave on your own accord, but I’m expecting you and your mongrel brother to pay up sooner or later,” France said, looking at Germany in disgust.

“Fine then,” Germany said before grabbing his satchel and heading for the double doors. 

“Allemagne.”

Stopping mid-step, Germany glanced over at his shoulder at the table. “Yes, Frankreich?” 

“I said I would take back what was mine, did I not?”

Germany just stared at him then shook his head, opened the door and left. He slammed it behind him.

 

**Historical Notes:**  
\- To clarify, the younger version of Germany here is portrayed as the North German Confederation. The North German Confederation was founded in 1866 by Otto von Bismarck. Of course, this changes throughout the course of the story as he transforms from the North German Confederation to the German Empire to the Weimar Republic.  
\- The newspaper headline is the Ems Dispatch. Otto von Bismarck, the Prime Minister of Prussia, published the Ems Dispatch after an incident involving King Wilhelm I of Prussia and the French ambassador, Count Vincent Benedetti.  
\- A Stabsunteroffizier is the equivalent to a Sergeant in the military. A Feldwebel is the equivalent of a Staff Sergeant.  
\- Treaty of Frankfurt and Treaty of Versailles


End file.
